


Scars

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, javert doesn't die AU, not-so-graphic depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever said emotional scars were harder to heal was a fool, Valjean thought bitterly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about Javert discovering the scars left on Valjean's body, and Valjean still being somewhat traumatized from the method in which he got them. This is what resulted. Kind of vaguely inspired by a kink meme prompt, but I'm not sure if this was what the OP was going for, so I'd hesitate to call it a real fill. This takes place about a year after the barricade, after Valjean has interrupted or in some other way prevented Javert's suicide, and they found themselves living together. I did not elaborate too much on how their relationship formed; it has been done to death, and I thought I'd rather just get into the story.

There was no denying that Valjean loved Javert, and no denying that Javert wholly reciprocated. It had been overwhelmingly easy for Valjean to lower his guard around the former inspector, to relinquish resentment over the difficulty Javert had caused in Valjean’s life over the last two decades. Valjean had confided in Javert; confided the fear he still felt of Toulon, the emptiness he felt over losing Cosette. Javert had even, though reluctantly, confided in Valjean. The nature of their relationship even before their _relationship_ was not one that promoted secret-keeping. They were almost too honest with each other.

Yet Valjean could not let Javert in on his final secret, this secret that was so difficult to hide because it was external; not a secret betrayed by his mouth but by his back.

They had been living together almost a year, ever since that fateful night of the barricade, and Valjean seemed to be running out of excuses to not be bare around Javert. Even when they would lay together, Valjean would keep his shirt. Occasionally he would permit Javert to remove it, but only if they were in total darkness, and even then Valjean would flinch at Javert’s touch upon his bare skin, not wanting Javert to feel the scars upon his back.

He was not doing this for himself; he was doing it for Javert.

He had confided his fear of Toulon in Javert, and he trusted Javert would never hurt him in that way again. He was not sure, however, if Javert could handle seeing the immense damage done to his body during his stay in prison. Not only the brand upon his chest but the deep, painful scars from years under the lash. He wondered if Javert remembered how bad it was, if it had ever struck him during his time at Toulon.

He knew Javert would wonder with a sense of pervasive guilt which of them he was responsible for; he worried it would overwhelm him. When Valjean found him, that night of the barricade, he knew he would have to be gentle with Javert, and this was not gentle. In a sense, Javert was still recovering; Valjean tried not to tread too lightly around the former inspector out of fear of offending him, but felt the harsh reality of Valjean’s former life might be too great a shock.

He managed to last a while without Javert noticing his aversion to being completely naked around him. After about a month, something seemed to click for Javert, and he would oblige Valjean without protest. It became an uncomfortable weight upon them at times, hanging heavily in the room when Javert would be forced to avert his eyes from the man he loved, or restrain himself from holding the man’s strong back with his bare hands. It was difficult, but what in their relationship was ideal?

They had grown used to their unspoken arrangement eventually, and it had been after about a year of their relationship when Valjean awoke to Javert regarding him with a look of utmost weariness.

“Is something troubling you, Javert?” Valjean asked, rubbing his eyes as they burned with the morning sun.

“Will you be dead before you allow me to see your scars?” Javert blurted. All this time, yet still no gift for subtlety or tact.

Valjean’s sigh was strained. “Javert,” he warned. He wished Javert would not do this to him, not _today_ , but if not today then when? _Ideally, never,_ Valjean thought bitterly. He wondered what prompted Javert’s inquiry.

“Say no more,” Javert sighed, standing up. He dressed himself quickly before leaving the room, leaving Valjean to dress himself in privacy.

\--

Valjean could not help but notice Javert was especially distant at breakfast. Neither of them tended to enjoy small talk, and, indeed, most of their meals passed in a state of contented silence, but Valjean could tell Javert was worlds away.

Valjean regarded him with a look of concern. “Is there any reason you are asking now?” He asked, cautiously.

“I thought we had surpassed the need for secrets,” Javert replied. He seemed unable to look Valjean in the eye.

“Javert, I am not doing this out of privacy,” Valjean started. He decided it was better to leave it there than to explain to Javert he felt it was for Javert’s benefit and not his own; Javert loathed being coddled like a child, and would surely take offense to the notion that he might not be able to handle what he saw.

Javert did not reply.

Breakfast was long indeed.

\--

It was not a fight; Lord knows Javert and Valjean had fought before. While Javert had conceded that maybe it was possible for people to change, and while Valjean had conceded that it was not incorrect to assume most people would not, they still had an abundance of ideological differences.

Occasionally it would be smaller things that would cause an argument between the two; despite Valjean’s god-like patience, Javert still knew where to poke a sharp stick and could still be overwhelmingly insensitive. He was not one to back down from a fight, and Valjean was too stubborn to concede in whatever squabble they were having.

But this was not a fight.

Javert did not seem to embody the typical level of frustration for a fight with Valjean; he did not have the air of someone only just holding back a torrent of shouts and insults. He simply seemed put-off, distant. They passed most of the day in an uncomfortable silence, and the weight of Javert’s question was still hanging heavy in Valjean’s apartment when they headed for bed.

\--

It was Javert who broke the silence. He was sitting at the edge of their shared bed, staring at the wall while Valjean undressed behind him. “I have been thinking about Toulon,” he offered.

“Ah, yes.”

“I should not have brought it up,” Javert muttered.

Valjean let out a deep sigh. “Javert, I will show you if you feel you need to see with your own eyes, but it is not pretty.”

Javert stayed turned away from Valjean as Valjean continued.

“More importantly, you must understand that it is not your fault.”

“Will you be honest with me, should I inquire about a scar?” Javert’s voice was apprehensive and yet the words still stumbled clumsily from his lips; it was far from the deliberate tone of Valjean, who could have spent years carefully deciding each word.

“I will try,” Valjean responded.

Javert stayed facing the wall.

“You may turn around, Javert,” Valjean offered delicately.

Valjean stood as he watched Javert turn slowly toward him and almost appraise his bare chest; he noticed Javert’s eyes linger on the still all-too-visible brand.

“I apologize,” Javert choked. He walked slowly up to Valjean and ran his hand cautiously over the brand. Valjean had not known Javert’s touch to be so gentle.

“It was not your doing,” Valjean replied.

Javert did not reply. He walked slowly around Valjean, and Valjean needed to take a breath to compose himself; he was not used to being examined in such a way. He could hear Javert exhale sharply when he was behind him, though he had the impression Javert did not mean for him to hear.

Javert was behind Valjean, and traced a scar with a delicacy Valjean did not know Javert capable of.

“Do you remember getting each one?” Javert’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Pain like that is not forgotten easily.” He did not intend for it to have come out as heavy-handed or gravely as it had, and cursed himself for it. “I remember some,” he added. “That was after my first escape attempt.”

“And yet you attempted to flee again,” Javert mumbled. It was not a condemnation; it was Javert struggling to understand.

“It seemed a reasonable risk,” Valjean managed.

Javert let his finger find another scar. “This one?”

“I had fought with another convict.”

“Why?”

“He told me that by getting caught I ensured my sister’s death.”

“Why were you punished?”

“They found him unconscious.”

Javert fell silent. He continued to run his hand along Valjean’s back, and paused once he came to a particularly deep scar. “And here?”

Valjean hesitated. “There had been a riot. Someone named me as an instigator.”

“What year was that?” Valjean felt Javert’s finger continue down the scar.

“1814,” he said, quietly.

“I remember that,” Javert said. “That was while I was -”

Javert fell silent; Valjean felt his hand pause along his back.

“Valjean, I am,” Javert stammered.

“It is not your fault,” Valjean repeated.

“I did this to you?” He demanded.

“Javert,” Valjean tried.

“You did not instigate the riot?”

“No.”

“I do not remember you denying it,” Javert mumbled, mostly to himself.

“I knew it would not have mattered.”

Javert let out a sigh and stepped away from Valjean, sitting again on the edge of the bed.

Valjean knelt down in front of him, imploring. “Neither of us have had easy lives, Javert. It was a long time ago. What were you to do?” He reached for Javert’s hand and pressed it. “I do not blame you.”

Javert sighed.

“Have you no scars?” Valjean asked.

“The worst is on my chest from a bayonet they had threatened me with at the barricade,” Javert offered. “It is not very deep. I do not even think they realized they had cut me.”

Valjean’s hands moved to the buttons on Javert’s shirt and fumbled with them. Javert watched him quizzically as he unbuttoned his shirt. Having finished, he pulled it slowly away from Javert’s body and admired a small scar.

Valjean leaned forward and kissed it. He then looked up at Javert and, cupping his head, kissed him softly.

Javert kissed back, and it is one of the more tender kisses they have shared. Valjean stroked at Javert’s neck with his thumb and found beneath Javert’s stubble a patch of roughness. He pulled back.

“Was this from the rope at the barricade?” Valjean asked. It had not looked that tight, and Valjean wondered if he might have been responsible for pulling it too tight.

Javert shook his head. “You are forgetting I once lived at Toulon as well.”

“An inmate attacked you?”

“No,” he replied. His voice was grave, the words heavy. “It was when I was a child. I remember only vaguely.”

Valjean let out a soft curse.

“I was a child who lived in a prison, Valjean,” Javert said. “They were good to have kept me alive at all. I was not an... easy child.”

Valjean found himself wondering what a child might have done that would warrant such a scar; he was anxious for details but did not press him.

“I lived there until my mother died. I think I was about five when that happened,” Javert said. “I do not know why that mattered. I saw her only very rarely. Most of the time I was left alone with the guards, most of the time they were not very kind to me.”

“No child deserves that,” Valjean manages.

“Toulon was a long time ago,” Javert said, finally. “For both of us.”

Valjean pressed Javert’s hand again, and felt Javert’s thumb gently caressing the marks left on Valjean’s wrist from years in irons. Valjean leaned forward and they are kissing again, Valjean still kneeling on the floor and Javert perched on the edge of the bed. The kiss is tender, it is an apology; an apology from both, to both, for sins they had not committed.

Javert wrapped his arms around Valjean and pulled him close. The embrace was tight, and Valjean welcomed it; the significance of Javert’s strength being used to protect him instead of harm him was not lost on him.

Valjean stood up, only partially, just enough to join Javert on the bed. Javert still had his arms wrapped around Valjean and his hands were probing his back, exploring each ridge, each mark.

Valjean let his hands explore Javert in a similar manner, and found more scars than Javert had acknowledged. He caressed them tenderly, but thought better of asking Javert for any details. He imagined most of them had been from when Javert was a child; Javert as an adult seemed almost too competent and too rigid to have been involved in enough fights to leave the marks Valjean discovered. Javert’s formidable presence was usually enough to detain someone; he could not see these wounds being inflicted during an arrest.

Valjean felt the guilt sink in as his hands traveled Javert’s body; Javert had been innocent, he had only been a child. He wondered if he had been selfish for hiding his scars from Javert and not considering the scars Javert might have been hiding from him.

Their kisses grew slower and softer, their touch becoming lighter. Eventually, Javert pulled away.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” he whispered.

“And you,” Valjean replies.

Javert was still stroking Valjean’s back when he fell asleep.


End file.
